you know what scares me about every religion’s take on paradise is that it always comes across like a timeshare brochure, or like a tri-fold pamphlet for an old folks’ home. i mean they’re selling you eternal rest for your soul! and it all sounds so nice, doesn’t it?
and then you get there and the beach is really an alligator-filled swamp, and there are used condoms between the sheets in your hotel room, and you catch the bellhop jerking off in the coat check, and the guy at the front desk tries to sell you some blow, and the only thing to do in town is an alice in wonderland-themed putt-putt golf course where half of the shit is permanently closed for renovations and there’s a dead body in the parking lot.
what if . . . the universal cosmic creator was really a jerk? like a great big used car salesman who can create matter and oxygen and time and so on? oh mean—holy hell. have you thought about this?